


personal jesus

by Radiday



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radiday/pseuds/Radiday
Summary: Or, in no particular order, a collection of times FP Jones tells Fred Andrews he loves him without actually saying the words.





	1. Chapter 1

_Your own personal Jesus,_

_Someone to hear your prayers,_

_Someone who cares_

              -Personal Jesus, Depache Mode

  

One Friday two months into junior year, FP Jones notices that Fred Andrews is not in English.

Which is a real pain, because they were supposed to go to the drive in that night.

He asks around, but nobody’s heard from him. Finally, he corners Mary at her locker. “I stopped by his house this morning, ‘cause we were supposed to walk together. His mom said he’s sick. Strep throat, or something. Sorry, FP,” she says, patting him on the shoulder with a light laugh, “I think you’ll have to reschedule your date tonight.”

“It’s not a date,” he snaps, but she’s already gone.

He goes over to the Andrews after school anyways, if anything just to make sure that this isn’t just some elaborate plot to get out of spending time with him.

“Oh, dear,” Bunny says when she answers the door, “He’s got strep. But the doctor said he’s not contagious anymore, so go on up. He’s probably going stir crazy.”

He barrels up the stairs and knocks on the door rhythmically. One look at Fred and he knows this isn’t an excuse. It’s impossible to fake how miserable Fred looks.  “How many girls have you been kissing?” FP jokes as he shuts the door behind him.

Fred laughs, but it turns into a cough. “That’s mono, you idiot,” he rasps out before turning his head and coughing into his elbow some more. He reaches for the box of tissues on his bedside table and blows his nose.

“I thought strep was just a throat thing.”

Fred looks up with just his eyes, still holding the tissue to his nose with both his hands. “I’ve got some weird mutant version then,” he says, crumpling the tissue in one hand and falling dramatically back against the pillows, letting out a congested breath. “I can’t breathe,” he moans.

FP reaches over and puts his hand on Fred’s forehead, unsurprisingly finding it hot. “You have a fever.”

Fred rolls his red eyes. “You think?” He shuts his eyes and leans his head back.

FP takes a step back. “You should sleep. I’ll come back later.”

“No,” Fred says too loud for his burning throat. “Stay, please.” He leans over and pulls on FP’s shirt, propelling him onto the bed. “I just need a nap and then we can go to the drive in,” he said, his voice even more hoarse and congested than before.

FP laughs. “Buddy, I don’t think you’re in any condition to go to the drive in.” He looks over, only to find Fred snuggled deep against his arm, covers pulled up to his mouth.

“We’ll take the truck,” Fred says with his eyes closed. “I can sleep if I need to.”

“We’ll talk about it,” FP says, leaning over the edge of the bed to grab an old sports magazine strewn on the floor. He cracks it open. “You just sleep now.”

They do end up going to the drive-in, despite FP and Bunny’s objections. Fred stands at the door, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, trying his best to appear completely normal even though his body aches with fever and FP’s just gotten through joking that he sounds like a dying cow. “If I don’t feel good, FP’ll bring me home. Right, F?”

“Or, and here’s a thought. We don’t go, and that way if you don’t feel good you’ll already be in your bed.”

Fred scoffs and coughs into his hand. “You’re no fun,” he pouts. “We’re going,” he says, pulling FP out by his shirt.

Albeit concerned, FP and Bunny can’t help but laugh at Fred walking to the truck, the blanket that wrapped around his shoulders long enough to trail on the grass behind him. He looks like a child.

“I’ll take care of him,” FP says, kissing Bunny on the cheek before running of after him.

“I know you will, dear,” Bunny says even though she knows FP’s too far away to hear her. “I know you will.”

* * *

 As it turns out, FP and Bunny were right. They’re halfway through _Pretty in Pink_ and Fred’s voice is barely there, reduced to a cracky semi-whisper. He sneezes, hand moving to his throat, rubbing it as if it’ll help. He moans as he rests his forehead against FP’s shoulder and FP can feel the heat radiating off of him.

“Hey, buddy,” FP stays, watching as Fred lifts his head up just enough that FP can see his bleary eyes. “You wanna go home?”

Fred sneezes and rubs his throat again. “Yeah,” he tries to say, but no sound comes out. He coughs harshly into his elbow.

“Okay,” FP says as he reaches for the gear shift. “Let’s stop at Pop’s and I can pick you up some soup, okay?”

Fred nods weakly, head now resting against the window, the cold bringing relief to his hot skin.

FP wants desperately to reach over and run a hand through Fred’s hair and kiss his forehead, and he thinks in his current state, Fred might let him, but he can’t. He wants Fred to _want_ him to, not just let him do it because he’s too sick to say anything.

Fred’s asleep by the time he pulls into Pop’s, and then the Andrews’ house. He shakes Fred gently and helps him out of the car, all but carrying him up the stairs. Bunny, who’s been waiting up, follows them up behind with the soup FP handed her at the door. 

Fred stirs just enough for her to force the bowl and spoon into his hands, and it eats it despite himself. He gets through half of it before he shoves it back into Bunny’s hands, and once again rests his forehead on FP.

“You know, dear,” Bunny says as she runs a hand through his hair and stops to feel his forehead. “Sometimes, it’s beneficial to listen to other people.”

“Can we not?” Fred croaks.

FP laughs. “You get some sleep, Freddy. I’ll come back tomorrow,” he says as he helps Bunny tuck Fred in.

Fred hums, practically asleep. FP follows Bunny out, and he’s almost out the front door when Bunny calls out to him.

“Fred’s just so lucky to have you,” Bunny says, cupping her hands around her his face. “I don’t know what he’d do without you.”

FP laughs and suddenly feels nervous. “I don’t know what I’d do without him.” They share a hug, and then FP leaves, quietly zooming away on his motorcycle, already anxious to return tomorrow.


	2. Chapter 2

The cold winter air bites sharply against Fred Andrews’ face on this November day.

He reaches over and runs his fingers along the marble slab in front of him,  it’s edges sharp like the wind.

He hears the rustling of leaves behind him and tenses, silently willing the person to keep moving and let him have his peace.

He relaxes only slightly when he sees the familiar leather motorcycle boots out of the corner of his eye, and only turns around when he feels a firm and solid hand on his shoulder.

FP gives him a sad smile. “Archie called, said you weren’t returning his messages. I thought I might find you here,” he pauses, his eyes flicking around the open space before them. “Birthdays are hard.”

“Yeah,” Fred breathes out from where he’s crouched down. He wipes his nose with his sleeve. “They are.”

FP reaches over and touches on the stone himself, the same firm and solid hand he’d laid on Fred.

“Come on, buddy,” he says finally. “Let’s get out of here.”

Fred lets himself be led out of the cemetery, turning to take one more glance at the gravestone he just left.

 

_Oscar Andrews_

_Beloved son and brother_

_October 8th, 1970 - November 12th, 2004_


	3. Chapter 3

“Just, if you hear from him, would you ask him to call me, please?”

“Sure, Mrs. A.”

FP sighed as he watched Bunny Andrews walk away from the trailer. Fred Andrews was a wanted man. This had been the second person today that had been looking for Fred. He decided it was time to check all the usual spots. Pop’s the school gym, and finally, the baseball field. That’s where he found his old friend.

“Freddy! What are you doing here? I’ve been looking all over for you! What gives?”

“Nothing,” Fred says, not breaking eye contact with one of those baseball pitching machine as it spits out a ball. The crack reverberates through the air as Fred sits another home run. He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.

“Well, Mary called and said you told her you weren’t going on the ski trip anymore. Something’s gotta be wrong if you don’t wanna go all of a sudden. We were pumped for that.”

Fred had been the most excited for this year’s senior trip to the mountains. He’s gotten a job at Pop’s that summer to help pay for it, had even gotten FP a job there too.

Another _crack_ as a ball flies through the air.

Fred swings the bat down so it’s at his side. “I just don’t wanna go anymore. It’s no big deal.” He shrugs and sniffs again, and it’s only then that FP sees that Fred’s been crying.

“Man, seriously. You can talk to me. We spent all summer saving up for that trip. Whatever is going on, I can help,” he says, taking a step closer. A ball whizzes past him but Fred doesn’t swing at it this time, just lets it fly past him with a _whoosh._

“Nothin’ to help with, man,” Fred says, getting back into position to hit the next ball.

“Obviously there is, Freddy. Come on, just tell me.”

Fred hits the incoming ball with _crack_ so loud FP misses what he says next. “You can’t help.”

FP takes even another step closer. Another ball whooshes past them. “What was that?”

Fred tosses the metal bat on the ground. “You can’t help!” he shouts.

FP stumbles, stunned, but Fred continues. “You can’t help! Not unless you know the cure for cancer!”

Another _whoosh_.

FP ignores it, slack jawed. “What? Freddy, are you-,” he starts, but Fred cuts him off, his face twisted in frustration.

“No, man!” he says, waving FP off. “It’s my dad,” he says, quieter. “He’s sick.”

One more ball whizzes past them and FP tuts, irritated, and marches over to the machine to switch it off.

“Freddy,” he says, his voice gentle. “I’m sorry, man. I had no idea.”

They’re standing even closer now, so close that if FP just leaned his head forward an inch, they’d be touching noses. Or lips. FP brushes the thought away.

“Neither did I,” Fred says, unshed tears lingering in his eyes. “They didn’t tell me until yesterday. Mom said dad hadn’t been feeling well for a while. A while, FP! How long did they know and just didn’t tell me?” he shouts.

“I don’t know, man,” FP says solemnly.

“I mean, he’s my dad! I have a right to know!”

“You do.” FP tries to keep his voice low and steady as Fred’s gets louder.

He reaches out to try and embrace Fred in a hug but Fred takes a step back. “Cancer!” He shoves his palms into his eyes. “People _die_ from cancer!”

“I know.” FP swallows to keep his voice from going shaky, but he can feel his eyes burning.

“I don’t want him to die!” Fred shouts. He stumbles over the thrown baseball bat and turns to kick it away. When he turns back to face FP, his face is twisted in grief and he’s crying freely. “I don’t want him to die,” he sobs.

FP runs to him, wrapping his arms around Fred’s shaking figure. Lets Fred cling onto the neck of his shirt and lowers him to the ground so they’re sitting shoulder to shoulder on the grass. “I know,” he repeats, and suddenly feels useless. He aches for Mary, or Hermione. They always know what to do. “I’m so sorry, Freddy.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Your mom came by the trailer,” he tries to throw in casually. “She said you left this morning before anybody was up. She thought you might be with me. She’s worried.”

“I was here,” Fred says wetly, pulling grass up by the fistful. His breathing hitches. “I just couldn’t face them.”

“Did something else happen?”

Fred laughs bitterly. “Mary called the house first, to ask about the trip. She talked to my mom.”

 

_“You’re not going on the trip? You spent all summer saving for it!”_

_“How can you expect me to go on some stupid field trip when Dad’s here dying?” Fred had shouted at his mother, his hand on the front door._

_“Frederick Andrews!” Bunny yelled , face suddenly red and angry like Fred had never seen. “ You will not talk like that in this house! Do I make myself clear?”_

_Fred huffed. He was angry, but could feel the tears running down his face. Before he knew it, he had thrown the front door open and found himself sprinting down the driveway._

_“Fred!” He heard his father call. “Freddy, son!”_

 

His voice hadn’t been angry like his mother, but rather worried and almost sorry, so completely un-Artie like.

“I wanna go,” Fred says, sniffing and wiping his eyes. “It just doesn’t feel right, you know? I’m off having fun and dad is…”

“Hey, it’s okay,” FP says, throwing an arm loosely around Fred’s shoulder. “We don’t have to go. It’s not a big deal.”

Fred looks at FP, concerned. “No, you should go. The deposit’s non-refundable.”

“Eh, it’s just money.”

Fred looks at him shocked. That just might be the kindest thing FP’s ever said to him. He knows how strapped for cash FP’s been since his dad kicked him out.

“Besides,” FP continues, “what am I gonna do there without you, man? You know I didn’t even wanna go in the first place.”

Fred gives him a weak smile.  “Alice will be there.”

“Yeah, Alice _and_ Hal. She’ll be too busy playing housewife and I, for one, am not interested in seeing that.”

Fred laughs, but doesn’t say anything. After a minute, he says quietly, “We should go on the trip.”

FP sighs, relieved. Two hundred dollars was a lot of money to lose on a deposit.  “Yeah, we should.”

They look at each other and laugh, the kind of unspoken communication that can only be between two people who each other inside and out.

FP leans over and hits Fred’s shoulder with his own. “But first, we gotta go back to your place. Talk to your folks.”

Fred turns his head to face FP, his eyes wandering and nervous. “Hey,” FP coaxes, “I’ll be right there with you the whole time, yeah?”

Yeah,” Fred says, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Yeah, okay.”

FP pulls Fred up and throws an arm around his shoulder again. “Hey F? Thanks. I love you, man.”

FP laughs. They reach the motorcycle and FP reaches to the back for his helmet. He’s only got one. It’s all he could afford.

He looks at it for a minute, then hands it over to Fred, who looks back, eyes questioning, but puts it on anyways as they ride away.


	4. Chapter 4

Three months into FP Jones’ stint in the army, he gets a call from Alice Smith, one-time girlfriend and longtime best friend.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for a week, FP. What the fuck?”

Her voice is still as crass as ever, but this time with a solemn tinge. She tells him that Freddy Andrews was in an accident. His truck had been t-boned by car that had hydroplaned over on Elm. “He’s okay,” she says. A few fractured ribs and a broken collarbone, but other than that unharmed. The truck is ruined, she adds, but that’s the worst of it.

“Nightmare on Elm Street,” she cracks.

FP feels his fingers tingling. He clutches the phone tighter, so it doesn’t slip out of his numb hands. “Why are you telling me this?” he says, intentionally forcing his voice to sound stone cold. What does Alice think, he can just up and leave the base whenever he damn well please?

“I just thought you’d want to know,” Alice says, her voice equally as hard. “He’s our friend.”

“He’s not-“

“Whether or not you’ve talked to him in the last three months, he’s still your friend, you ass. Call him.” With that, she hangs up.

So he does. He calls Fred immediately after he gets off the phone with Alice. Mrs. Andrews picks up the phone, just as surprised to hear from him as Fred is moments later when she gives the phone to him.

Fred’s voice is strained and monotonous. FP tries not to think about whether it’s because of the pain or because he’s talking to FP. He tries to make a joke and Fred breathes out a laugh but moans immediately. “Don’t make me laugh. It hurts.”

They talk briefly, Fred asking FP about the army and FP asking Fred about life back in Riverdale, even though he already knows what Fred’s going to say. Nothing ever changes in the town with pep.

Fred eventually lets him go, telling FP that he’s “pretty beat,” and FP can envision Fred scrubbing his face with his good hand, head leaning back against his headboard. Wishes nothing more than to be there to help him.

Two weeks later, he gets leave from the base and takes the Greyhound back to Riverdale. He’s hesitant, at first, but he knows Alice is in town from college and would beat him to a pulp if she found out he was on break and didn’t come back home.

He swears he’s got every intention to go to the Andrews house eventually, but he’s been home for three days and he still can’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he stalks into Pop’s and chooses an empty booth in the back when he hears the bell above the door and looks up to see Alice Smith and Fred Andrews wiping their feet on the mat.

Alice sees FP first and directs Fred’s attention over to him, and FP’s heart sinks when he sees a sling securing Fred’s right arm to his chest and the remnants of a  bruise under his left eye.

“Hey, man,” Fred says, sounding more jovial than he did when they talked on the phone, but his voice is raspy like he’s just woken up. “Alice said you were in town.” He slides into the seat across from him, and Alice follows suit.

FP tries not look like a deer caught in headlights. “I was going to come by, I just…” he looks down, fiddling with his napkin. “I didn’t want to disturb you. You know,” he gestures to his own shoulder, “The healing, or whatever.”

“Hey, man, no worries,” he says, a bright smile across his face. “I’ve been pretty out of it the last week anyways. This is only my second time leaving the house,” he says, nudging Alice with his free elbow. “Thanks to Allie Cat over here.” He and FP share a look.

Alice hits back. “Don’t call me that,” she growls. “You know you wanted out. God, being trapped with your parents for two weeks straight and no escape…” she trails off, looking slightly distance. “I mean, no offence,” she adds quickly.

“How’s your dad?” FP asks as if he only now thought to ask about Artie Andrews’ health. Truth is, he’s been trying to figure out how to ask Fred about his dad since they talked on the phone two weeks ago.

Fred starts to shrug but stops himself. “He’s fine. At least, that’s what he says. He’s still working. It’s from home, mostly, but still.”

FP nods. He wants to say something, but the only thing he can think to say is something useless, like “good” or “wow.” Instead, he waves Pop over and orders for all three of them. “On me,” he says, and he watches Fred’s mouth open in protest.

Pop just smiles. “It’s on the house,” he says. “It’s a special occasion. FP Jones and Allie Smith are home and Freddy Andrews is out of the house. I think that warrants a celebration.”

When he leaves, Fred scoffs at Alice. “How come he gets to call you Allie?” he gestures to Pop.

Alice doesn’t respond, just hits his good shoulder again. FP watches and thinks that if this moment were captured in a photograph right now, anybody looking at it would think it’s the perfect American town with the perfect American diner and perfect American teenagers.

Little would they know that this place had its secrets. Some deep, dark, downright ugly. Others, like his own, only causing internal destruction.

Like how his father’s usual verbal abuse had more than occasionally totted on physical.  

Or how joining the army was the most terrifying decision he’s ever made. And he didn’t really want to do it.

Or, his deepest, darkest secret of all, that he was in love with Fred Andrews.

* * *

 He ends up at the Andrews’ house for dinner that night, after Fred cracks another one of those full, bright smiles, and says, “my parents would be real glad to see you,” all wholesome and pure, like something out of a Brady Bunch episode.

Bunny practically jumps on him, almost knocks him to the ground with her hug, ecstatic and loving and warm and safe.

Artie shakes his hand, but it feels frail and thin around FP’s, and he can feel the subtle tremor of his body.

He follows Fred up to his room before dinner, and can’t help but feel sad when he notices Fred moving more slowly than usual, pausing at the top of the stairs to readjust the sling strap around his neck.

“How’s the truck?” FP asks.

Fred settles onto his bed. “It’s rough, man. Passenger side’s ruined.  I’m gonna try and fix it up once I get the sling off and my ribs stop hurting.”

FP hums absently before Fred continues. “How’d you find out, anyway? About the accident,” he adds when FP looks at him with furrowed brows. “Or did you already tell me? I was pretty out of it when you called.”

“You’re telling me,” FP says with a laugh. He shifts in his seat. “Alice called me.”

Fred purses his lips. FP knows that face all too well. “What’s wrong?” he asks with a sigh.

“Nothing,” Fred says too quickly. “Nothing. I just… I told Alice not to call you.”

FP scoffs. Fred should know better than you think Alice will do anything anybody tells her to. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, man,” Fred starts, holding a pillow to his chest with his good arm. “I didn’t want you to worry. What were you gonna do, come how from _the_ _army?”_

They sit in silence for a minute as FP runs through all the possible ways he can respond. He settles for, “I wanted to. I would’ve… I just…” he trails off.

“What?” Fred says suddenly. “You just what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing. “You just what?” Fred presses on.

“I just… didn’t know if you wanted to see me.”

“Why would I not want to see you?”

FP settles back in the desk chair and chooses his words carefully. “Freddy, come on. Things didn’t go great the last time we saw each other.”

Fred’s eyes turn to ice. “That’s because the last time we saw each other wasn’t seeing each other at all! It was you leaving me a note telling me goodbye before you left!”

“Oh come on, Freddy,” FP sighs. “We had spent all our time arguing with each other before I left! It was the easiest thing!”

 _“Fuck you!”_ Fred spits out suddenly, body erect and voice full of venom. “Friends don’t take the easy way out! That’s not how it works! Did you ever stop to think that the easiest thing for you was the hardest thing for me?”

“Oh come on, Fred! I was leaving for the army! You don’t think that was hard? It sure as hell wasn’t a walk in the park!”

“Nobody made you go!” Fred’s voice is loud, but he’s never quite been able to achieve the art of echoing boom like his father. “This isn’t fucking Vietnam! You chose to go!” He jabs a finger into FP’s face. “You could’ve stayed here!” He turns his back to FP to hide the fist and clenched jaw he can’t control anymore.

FP scoffs. “Stay here and do what, Fred? Huh? End up like my dad? Work some shit job that’s gonna get me nowhere?”

Fred spins around. His voice is low and calculated.   _“Is that what you think I do?”_ He tightens the fist. “Just work some shit job?”

FP pulls at his hair in frustration. “No! Christ, I did not say that! Did I say that? _Fuck_ , Freddy, what do you want from me? I told you I was joining the army and all you did was try and talk me out of it! You weren’t there! You weren’t supportive!”

“Excuse me for not being supportive of your _death wish_!” Fred says with a tooth-bearing snarl.  

“Fred, you weren’t even willing to listen for five minutes! Any time I tried to talk to you, you always made some excuse to get out of it!”

“Excuse? What the fuck are you on about, man? I had to work! I _have_ to work! My dad is _dying_ , there’s _no money_ coming in! If I don’t work, we don’t eat!”

“You could have made time!”

“Well maybe I didn’t want to! You ever thought of that? Huh? You think I wanted to say goodbye to my best friend? You think I wanted to think about what would happen if you didn’t come home? If you never came home?” Fred’s still shouting, but it’s strained now, like he’s holding back tears.

FP takes a breath and lowers his voice. “I’m right here, Freddy.”

Fred scoffs wetly. “For now.”

FP steps closer and takes Fred’s free hand in his. “Hey. I’m going to come back, I swear to you.”

Fred rolls his watery eyes. “You don’t know that.”

FP forces Fred’s eyes to look into his own. “I _do_ know that. Because I know that you’ll be here waiting for me now.”

“I always was, F. Even before.”

They share a brief moment, lingering awkwardly between a hug and something more, their bodies frozen and floating like an astronaut in space.

“Freddy! FP! Dinner!” Bunny calls from the bottom of the stairs. They both jump.

“Alright,” FP says, clapping his hands together, swinging them both into action. “Let’s eat!


	5. Chapter 5

FP almost misses the knocking on the door. Rain is pouring in sheets, pounding on the trailer like gunshots. He thinks he’s hearing things, but then he hears it again.

Three short, hard raps. FP recognizes it immediately. He stumbles over the pile of laundry Jughead left on the floor.

He opens the door and there stands Fred, his flannel shirt and jacket soaking wet, hair plastered to his forehead. FP thinks it makes him look younger, more boy-ish. Handsome.

He’ll never say it though.

“Freddy! What brings you to this side of town?”

Fred hesitates, opening his mouth then slamming it shut again. Finally, he gets out, “Can I come in?"

FP nods and steps aside, watching as Fred dumps the jacket on the arm of the sofa, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Everything okay?”

Fred nods unconvincingly. FP watches as Fred shakes off the rain, and it’s only then that he notices the wooden box under his arm.  “What’s that?” he asks.

Fred sets the box down on the coffee table and sighs. “They’re letters.”

FP’s face twists in confusion. “What?”

“You, uh, you remember Jack Milford?” Fred says as he settles into the sofa.

“Yeah, the old mailman. From when we were in high school,” FP says, chewing his lip.

“He came by last night,” Fred says, eyes fixed, unblinking, on the box. “Brought it. Uh- he found it in his attic. Said my dad gave it to him before he died.”

FP’s still confused. “You dad gave him letters? To who?”

“To me.”

FP feels the world stop.

“A-and to Oscar,” Fred continues, in another world. “Two boxes, one for each of us. He said Dad asked him to make sure we got these when we were 40,” Fred pauses, rubbing his hand along his forehead, “but Jack’s wife got sick a few years ago and he just forgot. He said he- he just remembered one night and had to bring them. Said he was gonna drop mine off and then ask about Oscar. He couldn’t find him in the phone book.”

FP opens his mouth to speak, but Fred cuts him off. “I told him Oscar was dead,” he says blankly.

“Fred,” FP whispers, but then decides to shift gears. “So your dad wrote you letters before he died?”

Fred sniffs. “Yeah, and for some reason, told Jack to wait 20 years before giving them to us.” His voice drips with bitterness.

“How many are there?”

“I don’t think. Twenty, or something.” He takes a deep breath and lets it out. “There was one in there for Archie- well, for ‘my grandchildren.’ And there’s one in there for you.”

FP turns his head so fast he feels his neck crack. “For me?”

Fred swallows thickly. “It’s in there.” He nods to the box, folding his hands together in between his knees. “I saw it when I was looking through them.”

“Have you read them?”

Fred rubs his hands down his thighs, feeling the rough denim of his jeans against his palms. “No. That’s actually why I’m here.” He laughs nervously. “It’s just been sitting on the counter staring at me since last night. And Archie keeps asking. I just, I just can’t have them in the house right now.”

FP looks at Fred to see unshed tears in his eyes. “So I was hoping I could keep them here,” Fred continues.

There’s a fleeting moment between them. “Yeah,” FP breaths out, finally breaking eye contact. “Of course. But don’t you want to read them?”

Fred shakes his head. “I will, I-I know I have to. But not right now. I just need a minute. But you can get yours. If you want. You don’t have to. I know you and my dad weren’t always big fans of each other.”

“You can say that again.” FP laughs and claps a hand on Fred’s back. “But, he was your old man.” Fred looks up from holding his head in his hands. “And I’m glad I knew him. Because it means I know you.”

Fred gives him a sad smile.

“Even if it meant climbing up to your bedroom window instead of going through the front door every once in a while.”

That gets a laugh out of both of them.

But then FP grows serious, the thought that had been brewing in the back of his mind since Fred arrived finally boiling over. “On a scale of one to ten, how badly do you want some oxy right now?”

“Eleven.”

FP shoots up, tossing Fred’s still-wet jacket at it’s owner. “Come on, let’s go.”

Fred furrows his brows. “What? Where?”

“They don’t have meetings regularly here anymore, just once a month. Lucky enough, that’s tonight. Let’s go.”

Fred puts the jacket on and gives FP another sad smile. “We are _not_ taking the bike.”

* * *

They go, sitting silently in the back of the room. FP keeps watch on Fred out of the corner of his eye, noting his far-away stare and shaking leg. Eventually, FP can feel the vibrations from his seat next to Fred, and puts a gentle hand on his knee to stop him.

Fred gives an apologetic smile and leans back in his seat, taking a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself.

He drops FP off despite his repeated protests that Fred really shouldn’t be alone right now, but Fred says Archie’s waiting for dinner at home and FP lets him off the hook, getting a verbal promise that Fred will call before he goes to bed.

* * *

Archie’s well aware of the emotional toll getting the letters has had on his father in the last 24 hours, but he can’t help but be a little surprised when he answers his phone to hear FP Jones’ voice on the other end.

“Mr. Jones?”

“Hey, Archie. Listen, I-um, I was just with your dad, and he told me about the letters he got from Artie. I just- I just wanted to see if you were home, to, you know, keep an eye on him? They seem to really be eatin’ at him.”

Archie sees the shine of the headlights through his window, and leans over to see his father’s truck pull up into the driveway. “Yeah, he just pulled up. I’m home tonight, I’ll make sure that he’s okay.” Archie pauses, swallowing, before asking, “He is okay, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” FP says hurriedly. “He’s fine. It’s just, it was his old man, you know? It was real hard on him. I just wanted to check in.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay. I’m here,” Archie says dumbly. He wants to say more, to ask more, but he doesn’t even know where to begin. He feels vaguely like he’s intruding.

“And, uh, don't tell him I called, okay? He’ll just get worried.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Jones,” Archie says hesitantly.

* * *

FP puts the phone down on the coffee table next to the box of Artie Andrews’ letters. Slowly, he reaches over and picks up to box, opening the lid to examine its contents.

There’s letter after letter filed in it’s depths. For a relatively small box, it sure holds a lot, FP thinks. He starts flicking through the envelopes, each one addressed to Fred, his name written in Artie’s slanted writing.

He’s almost at the end when he sees the one addressed to him, “Forsythe” written on the envelope. He pulls it out and feels something land on his feet, looks down to see another sheet of lined paper, unnamed and not in an envelope. He opens it to make sure its not for him, and his eyes widen as he skims through the words.

Seconds later, he’s out the door, the letter in hand.

* * *

He knocks on the door harshly, peering through the window to see Fred tying his robe as he comes down the stairs.

“FP?” Fred says sleepily. He wasn’t asleep yet, FP knows. He knows what Fred looks like when he’s just wakes up.

FP thrusts the piece of paper, eyes flicking briefly up the stairs to see Archie’s head peeking out from around the top of the stairs. “I know you said you didn’t want to read them. I respect that. But this one fell out when I was getting mine. Just- look at it, okay? Just this one.”

Fred says nothing, unaware of FP and Archie’s unspoken conversation. He weighs the letter in his hand and then nods. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” FP repeats. “‘Night, Fred.”

“‘Night.”

Fred stands at the door until FP and his bike are well out of sight, and then shuts the door, leaning against it. He carefully unfolding the worn and flimsy letter and sees his dad’s cursive writing appear below.

_My dear boy,_

_This will likely be the last letter I write to you. I’ll keep it short and leave you with this._

_I love you. I never told you that enough. I’ve loved you with my whole heart since before you were born and will continue to love you forever after I’m gone. I am so very, deeply proud of you and the man you’re becoming._

_You are my son and my legacy and I thank heavens every day that I got to be your father._

_Love,_ _  
_ _Dad_

He sees a wet spot at the bottom of the letter and rubs it with his thumb. Another one appears right above it, then another, but it’s not until his vision goes blurry that he realizes he’s crying.

He lets out a shaky breath and finally notices his son standing at the top of the stairs. Archie’s at his side in the blink of an eye, arms wrapped tightly around his father.

Fred can’t stop crying now, and feels Archie lower him to the ground, until both of them are sitting, backs against the door. For a fleeting moment, Fred feels miserably pathetic, but he doesn’t care. He leans his head into Archie’s chest, grasping at Archie’s firey hair with one hand. He feels Archie’s chest vibrate as he murmurs comforting words at Fred.

Fred can’t make out what Archie’s saying, but it doesn’t matter. He hugs his son for himself, and for his father, who never got the chance to do it himself.

And Archie hugs back, closes his eyes and rocks his father gently, and makes a mental note to thank FP Jones next time he comes around.


	6. Chapter 6

Archie won’t leave his father alone by himself in the weeks after the shooting. Not to see Veronica, not to play football, or practice his music. Nothing.

So when the fundraiser to save Pop’s comes around, Fred thinks it's time he get Archie to go. He spends all day trying to convince his son he’ll be alright alone for a few hours, but Archie won’t have it. In the end, they both end up going, after Fred tells Archie he’s feeling much better and wants to get out of the house.

He’s lying, but Archie doesn’t need to know that.

The party’s almost over by the time they get there, but Fred pushes his son towards his friends anyways and heads to the opposite end of the diner, where he spots an empty booth.

“What are you doing here?” He hears a voice behind him. “I didn’t expect to see you out of the house for a few weeks.”

Fred wraps his arm around his abdomen and turns to face Hermione. “Yeah, well, all the kids made plans to come here tonight but Archie didn’t want to leave me alone. I told him I’d come with.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Fred shrugs, a sad smile on his face. “I just want him to have some fun. I’ll be fine.” He looks around the diner, then asks, “Is FP working?”

Hermione nods. “Yeah, he’s in the back. Listen, I was gonna head out, but can I get you anything? Water? You want me to put in an order?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be alright,” Fred says, a smile playing on his lips.

Hermione eases him into the now empty booth and reaches over to the counter to retrieve the daily paper. “Here,” she says, giving it to him with a kiss on the temple. “This’ll help you pass the time.”

Her hand lingers on his shoulder until Hiram calls her over. Fred opens up the paper, even though he’s read it already. Getting shot in the stomach leaves little by the way of recovery activities.

He’s just about to read the business section for the second time that day when a familiar deep voice floats over from next to him.

“What can I get you?”

Fred looks up and has to hold in a laugh at FP in his uniform. He’d always hated it the summer he and Fred worked at Pop’s.

“Oh,” FP says, surprised when it’s Fred who looks up at him. “Fred, hey.” Suddenly, FP’s voice is quiet, gentle. As if speaking any louder will cause Fred to break.

“Hey yourself,” Fred says, forcing his voice to sound as normal as possible. “Nice uniform.”

“I, uh, I heard what happened,” FP says, slack jawed. “Jug told me. Should you even be out of bed?”

Fred shrugs and tries to make it look casual. “Archie was headed here, I thought it would be nice to get out of the house.”

FP eyes Fred for a second too long before humming his response. After another moment of awkward silence, he finally asks, “Milkshake or coffee?”

“Doctor said no coffee yet,” Fred replies with a slight pout and rubs his wound discreetly.

“Milkshake it is.”

“You, uh, you wanna sit down?”

“I’m off in ten minutes, that okay?” FP asks, gesturing to the counter.

Fred nods, pointing to the paper laid out in front of him. “I’ll be here.”

“Great,” FP says, his voice soft. “Um, vanilla, right? Extra whip?”

FP watches as Fred’s tired eyes light up. He nods.

“Coming right up.”

FP comes back and sets the milkshake on the table, and Fred laughs when he sees the three cherries FP added for good measure. Fred pops one into his mouth as he scans the paper, looking but not reading, waiting for FP to return.

“Hey,” FP says as he slides into the booth, as cool and collected as he did back in high school. Fred’s jealous. It’ll be awhile until he can move with ease like that again. “Shake no good?”

Fred looks confused for a second, his eyebrows furrowed and forehead wrinkles, before he realizes he’d only eaten the cherries off the top and hadn’t actually touched the shake itself. “Oh, no, it’s great,” he says hurriedly. “It’s just the meds they’re making me take. I haven’t felt like eating much lately.”

FP hums, giving him the flirty little half smile that still manages to make Fred’s heart flutter. “So that explains why you look like you’ve lost half your body weight.”

“Hey,” Fred says, lips pressed thinly together. “I’ve still got it.” He gestures lazily at his upper body.

FP reaches over and takes a scoop of whipped cream with his finger, licking it off. “Oh,” he says, pointing the now clean finger at Fred. “You’ve definitely still got it. But I do have to ask. This,” he waves in Fred’s direction, “grandpa sweater, is this something you owned before? I always pegged you as a jean jacket man, Freddy,” he says with a wink.

Fred pulls self-consciously at the brown open-button sweater that hangs loosely around his shoulders. “Mary bought it before she left. I can’t exactly wear a bathrobe out of the house, and it’s cold outside.” He gives a half smile. “Why, you don’t like it?”

FP shakes his head, taking another scoop of whipped cream with his finger. “No,” he says in between licks. “It looks great. You look kinda like an old man.”

Fred laughs softly. “Well, I did forget my reading glasses,” he says, nodding to the newspaper.

FP perks up playfully, pointing to the back room with his thumb. “You can borrow mine.”

Their laughs fall into a comfortable silence, and it’s only then that Fred realizes how tired he is. His side aches against the plastic of the booth, but his whole body hurts if he’s being honest. His neck and shoulders are sore, but when he tries to twist his back in a stretch, his side emits a white hot pain, begging him to stop.

FP notices the wince. “You’re fading, buddy.”

Fred tries to sit up straighter. “I’m okay.”

“You look like you’re about to faceplant into that milkshake. Why don’t I get Archie to take you home?” FP says as he starts to slide out of the booth.

Fred puts a hand out to stop him. “No,” he says too forcefully. FP’s eyes widen in concern and he sinks back into the seat. “Really, I’m okay.” FP shoots him a look that lets him know he can still read him like an open book, even after all these years, and Fred lets his shoulders sag. “Archie didn’t want to come out tonight because he didn’t want to leave me alone. He shouldn’t have to stay cooped up at home just because I am, so I said I’d come with him.” He rubs his fingers up and down between his eyebrows. “I guess I overestimated how long I’d be able to stay out,” he says with a tired laugh.

FP’s eyes flick between Fred’s crumpled frame and the table containing their sons and girlfriends on the other side of the diner. “Why don’t I get the keys from Archie and take you home? I can stay until Jug brings him home.”

“No, no. You’re tired. You just worked all day. I’m okay, really.”

FP cocks his head to the side and smiles. “Oh come on now, Freddy. Your couch is real comfortable. I would know. I’ve slept on it many times.” He  raises his eyebrows expectantly, and finally Fred nods.

“Yeah, okay. Thank you.”

FP slides out of his side of the booth and puts a hand out to help Fred out. Fred waves him off. “I got it.”

FP stifles a laugh at Fred’s adorable self-determination, and heads over to their children’s table, who are all now looking expectantly at them.

“Hey, Red. I’m gonna take your dad home in the truck, if you don’t mind getting a ride home with Jug.”

Jug nods, but Archie furrows his brows. “I can take you,” he says to his father, who has limped up to the table by then.

“No, Arch,” Fred says, placing a firm hand on Archie’s shoulder. “You stay. Have some fun. FP’ll stay til you boys come home.”

“Dad, I-,” Archie starts.

“We’ll be fine,” Fred says, reaching into his sweatpants’ pocket and pulling out his wallet. He drops a twenty on their table. “You all have another milkshake on me.”

“It’s alright, man,” Jughead tries. “Let ‘em go.”

Archie finally nods. “Okay. But I won’t be home late.”

FP laughs and squeezes Fred’s shoulder. “Never thought you’d hear that from your teenage son, did you?”

* * *

FP helps Fred into the truck discreetly, and doesn’t make any mention of doing so. Fred gives him a grateful nod.

He spends the first five minutes of the drive working up the courage to apologize to Fred, and the next five trying to force the words out of his mouth.

They’ve already pulled into the driveway when the finally come out. “I’m sorry,” he pauses, swallowing nervously, “I’m sorry I didn’t come see you sooner.”

Fred seems surprised. “What? It’s okay, F. Really. You were… busy.”

“I was in jail,” FP says firmly. “Jug told me what happened while I was in. It should’ve been my first stop after I got out.”

Fred smiles warmly, and FP feels the weight melt off his shoulders. “It’s okay, really. I haven’t been good company, lately, anyways. This is my first time leaving the house. I’m just glad to see you now.”

Relieved, FP takes the keys out of the ignition and swings around the truck to help Fred out. FP’s tossing his jacket on the couch when he sees Fred staring ominously at the stairs. “You okay?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and resting his forehead on the bannister. “I’m just trying to work up the strength to take a shower.”

“You want some help?”

Fred’s eyes pop open. He turns to look at FP with his eyebrows raised. “Do you mean that?” Fred asks, his voice surprisingly serious. “Because I think I might actually need it,” he says, his voice strained with exhaustion.

“Always, Freddy,” FP says, slipping off his shoes and following a hobbling Fred slowly up the stairs.

Fred starts the water and loses the grandpa sweater, but FP stands nervously in the master bedroom. “So how do you wanna-?” he trails off.

Fred laughs. “There’s nothing you haven’t seen before, FP.”

FP takes his shirt off a tosses it on the bed, holding out a hand for Fred to step into the shower. He stands outside the edge of the tub and takes the loofa off the hook.

“What do you need me to do?” FP whispers into Fred’s ears.

“I can’t bend down,” Fred says, the water running down his face. “Do you mind?”

FP stifles a laugh and wiggles his eyebrows, which catches Fred’s attention. “It’s not funny,” Fred says, exasperated, but with a smile on his face. “It’ll pull the stitches.”

“I know, I know,” FP says jokingly, lathering Fred’s legs. “We’ll keep it PG.”

It’s not long before FP’s helped Fred back into his pajamas, settling him securely on his bed under the covers.

Fred feels warm and safe under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. He mumbles something incoherent, but FP knows it means he wants him to come sit down.

FP perches himself on the edge of the bed and runs his fingers through Fred’s still wet hair. “Tired?”

Fred hums in response. “You just sleep then,” FP says gently.

Fred hums again, and FP tucks in the covers around Fred’s shoulders. He’s about to get up when he feels Fred pull on his sleeve. “F?”

“Yeah?”

“I forgot how nice it was to have you take care of me,” Fred says sleepily. “Thank you.”

FP leans over and kisses his hairline. “It was always the one thing I was good at, wasn’t it?”

“You still got it,” Fred mumbles before his breathing steadies and FP can tell he’s asleep.

“Yeah, I guess I do,” FP says to the room, before tucking Fred in again, smoothing over the sheets, and turning out the light. “Sleep tight, Freddy.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Funny one? Funny one. We always need a funny one.

“Well, I wasn’t expecting a show this early in the morning.”

Fred jumps, startled. He’s bent over, hands hooked around his calves, facing away from the door and towards his desk, trying to stretch out the tense muscles in his back before the work day begins. “ _Jesus_ , FP.”

FP laughs, stepping into the trailer and shutting the door behind him. “You okay?”

Fred nods and collapses back into his desk chair. “Fine,” he says, arms up in a stretch. “I slept funny last night, is all.”

“You need some help?” FP asks, eyebrows raised.

“Funny,” Fred says, eyeing FP over the rim of his coffee mug.

FP notices the tag hanging off the edge of the mug. “Is that tea?”

Fred sighs. “Archie did some science project about how caffeine is bad for your heart and now he’s on me to not drink so much of it. But there’s a fresh pot of real coffee over there,” he says, gesturing to the table at the end of the trailer, “if you want some.”

FP pours himself a cup and plops back down in his seat, leaning back in the chair on the other side of Fred’s desk. “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” he says. “I had some free time, thought I’d see how things were going.”

“Not at all,” Fred says, eyeing the cup as FP brings it to his mouth. “How, uh, how are you?”

FP smirks. Fred’s a coffee whore if he’s ever known one. “Not too bad,” he says, putting the cup down and sliding it slyly towards Fred. “You?”

Fred nods his response but keeps his eyes fixed on the cup. “Now you’re just being mean,” he says.

“You know you want it.”

Fred laughs silently, reaching for the cup and drinking its contents in one gulp.

“I won’t tell Archie,” FP says with a laugh, to which Fred responds with a playful glare.

Fred continues to roll his neck back and forth, stopping every so often to rub his shoulders. “What’d you do, sleep on a rock?” FP asks.

“Feels like it.”

“You’re workin’ too hard, Fred,” FP says, standing up and walking close behind Fred’s chair. He presses his hands into Fred’s shoulder blades.

“You don’t have to-,”

“You’re tense,” FP says, cutting him off, working his fingers into the crook of Fred’s neck. “Do you ever relax?”

“I relax,” Fred says defensively, turning his head back to FP. FP pushes his head back to face front.

“Oh yeah?” FP saks, switching to use his elbow. Fred groans under his touch. “How do you relax?”

“I… read the newspaper. Watch baseball. I cook.”

FP moves down to Fred’s upper back. “You cook because you have to feed your kid. And because mine comes over and eats all your food.”

“I enjoy cooking.”

“No you don’t. And when was the last time you watched a full baseball game?”

“A few weeks ag- Oh, right there,” he says as FP’s elbow digs into a spot next to his shoulder blade.

“Who’s in the World Series?” FP continues.

“Oh, come on,” Fred says, enjoying the massage too much to make himself sound annoyed. “You don’t know either.”

“I never claimed to watch baseball.” FP digs his elbow deep into Fred’s back, and he hears Fred hiss. “See, that’s what you get. This wouldn’t hurt so much if you relaxed every now and then. You need a hobby.”

“I have a hobby,” Fred mumbles with his eyes closed. He wasn’t expecting a massage today but it sure was a nice surprise, if he can manage to drown out FP.

“No you don’t,” FP says, moving to the area around Fred’s other shoulder blade. “You work, and you take care of Archie. And if you’re not doing either of those things, then you’re worrying about work or about Archie. Actually, scratch that. You do have a hobby. It’s worrying.”

“See?” Fred says, lifting his shoulder back in delight. “I told you I have a hobby.”

“Worrying can’t be your only hobby. You gotta do something fun.”

“You don’t do anything fun,” Fred says. He’s leaned down so his cheeks is pressed against his hand flat on his desk, allowing FP to reach the small of his back.

“Sure I do. I give massages. That’s fun.”

“Mmf,” Fred mumbles into the table. “It sure is.”

FP use his fingers now to press against the back of Fred’s rib cage. “We could do something together, ya know?” FP says. “Go running, play baseball?”

“You hate baseball,” Fred says, his voice muffled under his hand. “And the doctor said I can’t run for another three months.”

“Fine, then. A book club?”

Fred moans. “A massage club.”

“Now _you’re_ just being mean,” FP says with a laugh.

Fred opens his mouth to answer when they both heard a gruff voice from across the trailer. “Uh, Fred?”

Fred jumps up, all but knocking FP over with his force. “I can come back,” Vic, Fred’s foreman, says, looking away awkwardly.

Fred stands up hastily, knocking some papers off his desk. “No, no. What’s up?”

“We’re all finished outside. If you wanna come-.”

“Great, great,” Fred says, flustered, taking the pages from FP, who’d picked them up. “Let’s go take a look.”

He takes his heard hat off the desk, tossing is loosely on his head. He turns around to FP, who’s still standing there with an amused look on his face. He opens his mouth to speak but FP beats him to it. “I’ll wait here,” he says.

“Great,” Fred says, throwing an arm over Vic’s shoulder. As they walk away, FP heard Fred joke, “Feels like you need a massage, Vic. I know a guy.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post 3x09

The Serpents that operate at the border hear about it and laugh - some red-headed American getting mauled by a grizzly in the Canadian wilderness is better than fiction. They make jokes about it - something so stupid, so unequivocally American, until one of the older Serpents remembers that the former Serpent King from down south asked them to keep an eye out for a red-headed American and how many of those could there be up here?

So, they call Riverdale’s new Serpent King, who calls his father, who runs into Veronica on his way to the Andrews’ house. She tells him that Fred already knows, that he’d already been called by a doctor from some tiny Canadian hospital. Archie had lost enough blood to lose his bearings and forgot he was supposed to be using an alias, so when they asked him who they should call, he was quick to mumble that his dad Fred lives in Riverdale.

One Google search later, and they have the number for Andrews Construction, and the foreman on site doesn’t taken a second to give up Fred’s cell phone number after the doctors explain why they’re calling.

Fred’s front door is open when FP gets there. He lets himself in, calling out, wandering through the living room and into the kitchen. He opens the fridge, more out of impulse than anything, and finds it empty, save for a six-pack stored on the bottom shelf. He follows his hunch to the garbage can, opens it up to find it filled with empty beer bottles, and does a quick scan around the room for pill bottles.

He’s about to leave when his eye catches the unlatched back door. He follows the path out to the garage, and finds Fred at his workbench, back turned away. He takes another step and cranes his neck to see a long rifle laying on the table, and Fred cleaning the bore.

“What are you doing, Fred?”

Fred doesn’t even flinch. He turns his head and looks FP up and down with bloodshot eyes, and then silently turns his attention back to the gun.

“Fred?”

Fred doesn’t look up. His voice is wet and raspy when he speaks. “Archie got, uh-”

“I heard. I’m so sorry. He’s gonna be okay, though, right?”

“Yeah… yeah. They let me talk to him. I told him I was coming up there, but he said no,” Fred says, again turning his head to glance at FP. “He wouldn’t even tell me where he was.”

“Fred-”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Fred says, wiping his hand on a greasy rag and tossing it at the wall. “ I’m gonna kill Hiram Lodge.”

“You don’t mean that,” FP says, taking a step closer and putting a hand on Fred’s shoulder.

Fred turns around fully for the first time since FP came in. “Try me.”

FP takes advantage of Fred’s positioning, reaches across him for the gun on the table, and puts it safely on the couch behind him. “What about Archie, huh? What’s he gonna do when he comes back and we’ve gotta tell him his dad’s in prison?”

“He can go to Chicago with his mom. That’s what he should have done in the first place.” Fred says, searching under the workbench for a box of ammo. He finds it, and spins back around, reaching for the gun, but FP steps in front him.

“Okay, fine. Fine. You wanna shoot him, shoot him. But answer me this, Fred,” FP says, putting both his hands on Fred’s shoulders and squeezing them tight. “You shoot him. You go to trial. Or maybe you take a deal, doesn’t matter.” Fred looks away, but FP meets his gaze. “I get that you’re willing to do that, okay? I do. But are you willing to be the man that takes Veronica Lodge’s father away from her?”

FP feels Fred’s shoulders sag under his hands and knows he’s got him beat. “I-,” Fred starts, but the words get caught in his throat. “He can’t-,” he tries again, but still, nothing.

“This isn’t you,” FP says, his voice low and steady, like he’s talking to a child. If this were any other day, Fred would be irritated. “You are not a killer,” FP continues. “You’re not Hiram Lodge.”

Fred shrugs FP off as the tears pool in his eyes, his mouth dry and twitching as he tries to think of anything he can say. Nothing comes to mind, but the anger continues to bubble inside of him, rising and rising until he can think of nothing else to do but pick up the box of ammunition and throw it across the wall.

FP jumps. The box flies open when it hits the wall, and the sound of bullets pinging around the garage reverberates in his ears. “You’ve still got that arm, Freddy,” he mumbles.

Next goes the toolbox, swept off the workbench with one swing of Fred’s arm. Then a drill. Then another. Eye protection goggles. A wooden plank. A hammer. FP doesn’t make a move until Fred’s chucked half the contents of his work station across the garage. He picks at his thumb, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, watching as Fred’s breathing settles and he leans forward on the workbench, fingernails digging into the wood.  
“Fred.”

“I can’t-,” Fred says, sniffling into the back of his hand. “I can’t - I can’t keep doing this. I can’t live like this. I don’t know what to do with myself.” He scrubs his face with his hands, looks up at FP with eyes even more red than they were earlier. FP takes him in fully, stomach dropping at the tired lines and bruised under eyes on Fred’s face.

“Tell me what you need,” FP says, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “Just tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen.”

“I need this to be over,” Fred says, suddenly too exhausted to stand. He collapses onto the sofa, putting the gun on the ground and kicking it to the wall. “I need my son home.”

FP takes the spot next to him, hesitating for a moment before putting his hand on Fred’s back. “Believe it or not, I am working on it. It’s just- It’s taking some time.”

Fred looks up from resting his face in his hands and gives FP the weakest attempt at a smile he’s ever seen. “Thank you,” he chokes out.

FP nods, taking a moment to choose his next words carefully. “I, uh, I took a look in your fridge, in the trash.” Fred furrows his brow, so FP clarifies. “The front door was unlocked. You can’t do this to yourself, Fred. You can’t live like this.”

Fred picks at the hem of his shirt. “I just don’t see the point,” he whispers, leaning his head against the back of the couch. “I just don’t know how to live my life without him.”

FP knows there’s no words of comfort that will work, so he focuses on the situation at hand. “I didn’t see any pills in the kitchen. A whole bunch of beer, but no pills.”

“Pills are upstairs,” Fred says, then clears his throat. “They help me sleep.”

“Fred-”

“I know. I know!” Fred says, shooting up from the couch. “I know I shouldn’t, but I just don’t care. I just- it doesn’t matter.”

FP stands up too. “I know it feels like this is never gonna end, but it will, I swear. Sooner than you think.”

It’s meant to be kind, to provide comfort, but Fred’s tired of getting his hopes up and instead the words incite more bubbling anger. Before he knows it, he’s punched his fist into the concrete garage wall.

He expects to feel pain, but he doesn’t, remaining numb to the world around him. So he does it again, and again, and again, until his knuckles are bleeding. He doesn’t know he’s crying until he tastes the salt in his mouth.

The next thing he knows is that FP’s arms are around him, that he’s crying into his shoulder instead of punching the wall. He hears FP whispering something in his ear - he can’t make out what - and then he’s sitting on the couch again, FP’s arms around him, and at some point he feels himself drifting off.

He jolts awake to his phone buzzing in his pocket. The number isn’t one he recognizes, but it’s Canadian, so he tries not to vomit and puts the phone to his ear.

FP watches, leaning forward, straining to hear anything he can from the other end on the line. “What’s going on?” he mouths.

Fred ends the call and slides the phone back into his pocket. “That was Archie,” he says, tears pooling in his eyes again. “He says he’s coming home.”

FP smiles wide, puts his arms around Fred and rocks back and forth. “He’s coming home,” FP says. “You’re boy’s coming home.”

Fred smiles this time, and adds, “He said he’ll be home by tomorrow.”

“Okay, so you clean up the house,” FP says, gesturing into the house, “and I’ll go to the store, get some groceries.”

For the first time in weeks, Fred laughs. “What?” FP says. “I know how to shop for food.” Faced with Fred’s raised eyebrows, FP sighs. “Okay, fine, I’ll clean up, and you go get the food.”

Fred’s face falls. “I don’t know that I can drive right now,” he says, shame dripping from every word. “Most of those beers in the trash were from today.”

“Okay, it’s okay. Why don’t we do it together?”

Fred smiles again, a real smile, and follows FP out of the garage. He tosses the keys to his friend, who stops right before getting into the truck. “One question,” he says. “Where did you get the gun?”

“Dad’s old hunting rifle. I kept it in storage. Didn’t think I’d ever need it.”

“You won’t,” FP says as he climbs in. “I promise.”


End file.
